Once I was a knight, they called me Sir Hermina, informally Mina. I sported a lance and wore a midriff. Recall that iced coffee is cold. Hair should be washed every other day. No! In my SRO, I live amongst big fakers. The tunesmiths filled the hallways. Unrepentant ambling. What is wrong with a harem? A red dress, a white one and a brown one. Actually, tunics, and my ladies were gentlemen. Like Kierkegaard, Kafka and Walser, I am a steadfast bachelor. Like Kierkegaard, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, I am a stubborn umemployee. My problem is emotion—they say I squander equanimity. Yet much is left, although all is already written. Personally, I exist to dot their i’s and cross their t’s. T for truth, i for the square root of – 1, which is imaginary. I need to trim my fingernails and toenails. Neither mental nor personal hygiene. Nu, and dental? Forget that. It’s time to be dreamy. There are no mountains here. Perhaps in France or Switzerland. Also the Waldau Sanatorium outside Berne. I will take with me my pale green Hermes Rocket typewriter made in Switzerland in the year of my birth. They have rec rooms. I debuted as Don Giovanni or Faust or a split-second Antigone. The adventures splintered. A shaved head raises courage. Prod the issue with twigs. A tree here or there, a wall, an illegal firearm. I, Mina, persisted in willful romantic musings. Many are choses, few are called. An aristocrat of yore gets impoverished, but destitution suits me. The men appreciated my nonchalant affections, the ladies liked my curlicues. Mountain peaks twitched, clouds parted, a rod of sunlight pushed me. On the stage, a lackeyish bow. To stuttered claps, I exited. Reencounter myself here, listening to the raving bum by the moat. Dash it!
-Mina Pam Dick